Magical
by DamnI'mRandom
Summary: Even after all these years, John still makes Sherlock believe in the power of magic. Established Johnlock.


_I own nothing, obviously._

…

Sherlock gazes fondly at John as the latter sleeps, his face half-hidden by the pillow, his hair dishevelled. It's that part of the night when everything is still and peaceful, almost ethereal in the silence. Out here in the countryside, there's not much that can disturb – unlike London, which never sleeps. Even his bees have gone back to their hives for the night, and the little sparrow with the broken foot that he's been so tenderly taking care of for the past week is up in its makeshift nest of rags and twigs.

He traces, for perhaps the millionth time, the lines on John's weather-beaten face, memorising each perfect flaw unconsciously over again, registering a new contour he hadn't noticed before and carefully storing the information in his mind palace. John occupies more than half of his mind palace now. Sherlock doesn't mind.

John suddenly shifts and his face becomes visible, revealing the crescent-shaped scar on his jaw – acquired during their last case, a little more than three years ago. He cracks open his eyes and looks up at Sherlock, smiling gently as he beholds his love staring out of the open window. His hand automatically reaches for Sherlock's, squeezing in their standard symbol of reassurance.

Sherlock grins back at him and hauls him up into a sitting position, careful not to pull too hard. He closes his eyes as John places his head on his shoulder.

'You're up late,' John observes.

'Mm. Couldn't sleep. Too many thoughts in my head.'

'I'm sure the bees are _fine_, Sherlock. You worry too much about them.'

'It's not that.'

'Well?' John is wary now.

'I was just thinking how lucky I was to meet you that day at Bart's.'

In response, John just kisses him once sweetly.

He runs his fingers through Sherlock's salt-and-pepper locks, caressing each curl, and Sherlock sighs contentedly, savouring the sensation.

John thinks about when they first came out here, how Sherlock would hanker after a case every week for the first few months, solving any and every little case that came his way. After about three months, however, John _had_ to remind him that the sole reason they'd come to this house in the Lake District was because their days of solving crimes were over, and it was time to let it all go. They had fond memories of London, but now it was time to make new ones.

After that, Sherlock had settled down remarkably quickly, setting about redecorating Mycroft's summer residence (which he'd so _kindly_ given to the pair of them) and taking up an astonishing variety of hobbies to keep himself occupied. Beekeeping and painting were two things he'd found he excelled at – and so they had stayed. As of now, more than half the paintings in their house are Sherlock Originals, and Sherlock looks after his bees with almost as much zeal and passion as he used to solve crimes.

But sometimes, even now, he can be found sitting on the steps leading up to their porch, gazing out into the distance, reminiscing about their crime-solving glory days, and sometimes John joins him, and they sit there, hand in hand, for a long while.

As for John – he's content so long has he has his husband by his side until the day he dies. He's in his late fifties now, so there's not much he can do, because all the injuries he's accumulated over the years (and they're a _lot_) are giving him hell in some way or the other.

And there's always music. When he isn't looking after the bees or painting (or shagging John), Sherlock's playing the violin in the same simple, sweet way he always has.

A sharp poke to his side brings John back to the present, and he finds Sherlock's eyes glinting mischievously and a playful grin on his Cupid's bow lips.

'Oh no.' John's eyes narrow dangerously, and he pokes Sherlock in the stomach without warning. And so they continue for a good two hours until they're both giggling breathlessly like two teenagers, clutching stiches in their sides. As Sherlock wipes tears of laughter away from his eyes, he _looks_ at John, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright, and falls in love with his husband all over again. He suddenly takes both of John's hands into his and kisses him deeply and without restraint, because at this moment, _this very moment_, he's feeling the heady throb of love coursing through every vein and artery in his body, and his entire body _thrills_ with it.

And John makes him believe a little more in magic, that what they have, what they feel for each other, is nothing short of magic.

_And if you were to ask me,_

_After all that we've been through – _

_Still believe in magic?_

_Oh yes, I do. _

-Magic, by Coldplay

…

_Thoughts?_


End file.
